Rubaiyat

September morning just cool enough to show the soil’s breath. Forest in fog, new gold under old green, give me

your delectable frost, fine web of lines, the wind- fallen apple that fits so snugly in the palm

& when I take a bite it bites back. Who’d want their sugar straight, without some tartness? Give it to me

dry, as they say of wine. Impure, like every true love. And the must – ah, let it settle to the bottom

week by week until all the fog is gone & the bottle brims with light!